Dear 1950s Wife:
We recently moved to a new house with a peach tree in the back yard. Rather than paddling me, my husband now whips me with a switch for major offenses.
I sure wish we hadn't moved because those peach-tree switches sting like the dickens. I always holler and cry and dance up a storm when Hubby stripes my bare backside. Plus the ritual he puts me through for punishment is really embarrassing.
Once Hubby informs me I'm to be whipped, I must change into a girlish pink party dress that features puffed sleeves, a sweetheart collar and a lacy skirt with stiff crinolines underneath. The skirt sticks out at practically a ninety degree angle and is so short that the bottom half of my ruffled panties are displayed.
White knee socks, shiny black Mary Jane shoes and huge hair bow complete the outfit.
It's so humiliating to wear such a juvenile costume. But the worst part is that I must go outside to cut my own switch. The nosy middle-aged neighbor lady spends most of her time working in her backyard and always sees me.
So she wouldn't be unduly disturbed by my screams and cries when I'm disciplined, my husband informed the neighbor that we adhere to the 1950s lifestyle shortly after we moved in. This crusty old biddy has never been married and doesn't know what it's like to be spanked. But that doesn't stop her from telling me she thinks it's great that my husband whips me with a switch because, in her opinion, young women today are ill-mannered and disrespectful.
As soon as she spies me walking towards the peach tree in my party dress, the neighbor lady shouts "Ha, Ha, Little Missy, I bet you're gonna get your hind parts whipped good!"
She's always telling me to be sure to cut a nice green switch and that she enjoys hearing my sobs and screams of "Please Daddy!" when I'm whipped.
"Ha, Ha, 'Daddy' is gonna whip Little Missy till she can't sit down," she teases.
I got switched the other day for accidently mismatching one of my husband's black socks with a navy blue one. I didn't think it was fair -- a hand-spanking would have been enough -- and I guess I was in an extra bad mood when I was sent out to cut my switch.
The neighbor lady started teasing me as usual. I admit to a moment of bad judgment when I ran at her with my pocketknife. Luckily, my husband saw me from the window and tackled me just before I reached the fence. (He played cornerback on the high school football team and is really fast.)
As you might expect, my husband switched me extra hard once he got me back inside. I yelled "Please Daddy," so long and hard that my throat was horse and danced a jig so fierce that my feet were sore.
And, as additional punishment, I must use all the peaches from our tree once ripe to make pies for the neighbor to sell at her old-ladies-club bake sale and I'm not allowed to have one slice!
Rather than being angry at the neighbor lady, you should be grateful for her teasing as the humiliation from her laughing at you increases the salutary effect of your whippings.
And hats off to your husband making you wear such charming "discipline dress."
Such a pretty picture you must make in your party dress as you meekly hand "Daddy" the peach tree switch with one hand, feebly attempting to shield the panties that peep out below your skirt with the other, eyes cast down in embarrassment all the while.
I trust your husband is like mine and requires you to recite your misdeeds prior to whipping you. And, once soundly switched and your tears subside, to give him a girlish peck on the cheek then say "Thank you Daddy for whipping me so hard. I know you do it because you love me and care about how I behave."